


Godfall

by sighodinson



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies), Thor - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Gladiator Thor (Marvel), Gladiators, it's a gladiator au, mostly annoyed to slight enamored to i'd do any fucking thing for you u idiot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2019-03-25 08:55:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13830768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sighodinson/pseuds/sighodinson
Summary: With each passing day, Rome’s thirst for spilled blood grows. Each loud cry of pain that echoes in the arena serves only to fuel their hunger for combat furthermore.Stripped of his title, now a slave to the empire, Thor Odinson stands as an attraction to newcomers—an example of a man once powerful, now not more than property.Forcing participation in gladiatorial combat and drunk on their victories, the empire does not know of the very betrayal that will stem from the sands of the arena.In the shadows of Rome, gods will fall.





	1. Sand and Stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thor loses everything but his life.

 

CHAPTER ONE -  ** _SAND AND STONE_**

* * *

 

The empire spreads like plague, overtaking everything in its way until it stretched from the African deserts to the borders of northern Europe.

There is one more obstacle before the legions will be sent home to Rome, allowed then to return to the safety of their homes and the arms of their wives and children.

It is the height of Roman power and yet, the emperor hungers for more.

* * *

 

**7 years ago**

**The Romans have come to collect their tax.**

It’s grandiose.

He doesn’t remember where he learned the word but the procession is  _ grandiose _ . Mother would be proud, he thinks, eyes immediately moving to seek out the queen. 

She’s beautiful, gentle yet firm in a way that only a mother could be as Thor catches her eyes, his head tilted up as he shifts in her lap. 

Frigga only smiles lovingly at her son—he’d always been one to get what he wanted. Today, he’d made the choice to pay no heed to his father’s words although they had been delivered as a warning—his seat sits empty as he chooses once again to occupy his mother’s lap. 

Loki, however, is seated obediently where he belongs, his posture stiff as the Romans stream in, bearing long, lion-tooth tipped spears as they  _ intrude  _ into the throne room. 

He notes with disdain at the fact that they come with weapons into a room that his father had told him, time and time again, was sacred.

Thor shifts curiously as Frigga’s lips press a gentle kiss to the crown of his head. His voice is soft as he asks the question that’s kept him restless for the past week. 

“Mother, why do we give our men to them?” 

“For the protection of their gods, my little prince.” She whispers, her hand brushing Thor’s hair out of his face fondly. 

“But why do we pay  _ them?  _ Shouldn’t we pay the gods themselves? They’re mortals like us.” He whispers, arguing what she’d meant to be a simple answer to his question to silence him until the procession ended. 

“They’re not mortals, Thor. They are monsters—” 

Her words are cut off as the general begins to speak, “Queen Frigga, you look ravishing as always,” 

His grin is crooked, a jagged scar extending from the corner of his mouth to disappear beneath the collar of his armor. Frigga’s eyes harden at being directly addressed—then again, Romans were never to show respect to any but their own. 

Odin stiffens beside her, furious at his queen being spoken to with so little respect. (Although perhaps, one might dare raise the point his anger was due to being addressed after his wife.)

“You come for one thing, take it and be on your way.” 

The general’s grin widens, “Dear king,” He begins, mockingly bowing his head, “I’m afraid the emperor’s terms have . . . changed.” 

Odin opens his mouth to protest, hissing the words, “I did not receive word of this—”

The general is quick to interrupt and had it not been his next words, he might have been punished with what power Odin had.

“He requires a son of the royal family to be present in the capital.”

* * *

 

**12 A.M.**

**King Odinson has received news of an approaching legion.**

When the legion begins the siege on Asingurd, Odinson is ill prepared to fight back—they come quicker than the sun can rise, washing over the city like a flood unbidden by Neptune’s will. 

He manages one order—it’s not one that needs to be spoken. Heimdall understands, disappearing through the doors with a single nod, intelligent eyes surveying the king as his hand falls to clutch the hilt of his sword.

The king watches, sitting tense on his throne, idle as he waits.

Although for  _ what  _ he awaits, he does not know. Despite the lingering fear that rests low in his stomach, he watches the doors in hopes that the Romans come for a mere bargain of men for their cruel games—it is a price that he has accepted as necessary. 

Perhaps, one would think it already a high price to ask for innocent blood, yet, he is certain that they come asking for more.

It is the way of mortals to  _ want. _

It is the way of those in power.

* * *

 

**One week later**

**The Odinson throne has fallen.**

The party came riding when they caught sight of the smoke rising towards the heavens—fire meant there was something there to be conquered, money to be made.

Leading the group was a woman with darkened eyes, a blue ink-like substance painted along her cheeks. For them, looting was a way of life, especially in the shadow of the Roman empire that stretched so far into what was once their land. 

She calls out a command to her fellow Ravagers, her voice harsh, ringing out over the heat. And although the men are tired from riding, they urge their horses into a sharp sprint, sand spraying around the creatures’ hooves as they rushed forth. 

As they near the smoke, the horses snort in agitation, catching the scent of torn flesh. As the men dismount their steeds, they’re forced to cover their mouths with the cloth of their sleeves, breathing slow as not to inhale smoke. 

Drawing closer, they find a man lying dead on blackened earth, his eyes shut and his fist closed around something that looked like a child’s toy. One of the men is quick to bend down, attempting to free it from the dead man’s hand—after all, anything could be sold. 

The dead man moves. A low grunt of pain leaves his lips, causing the men surrounding him to back away in fear. 

Dead men didn’t move. 

Something is said in a strange language—stopping one of the men in his movements as he rose his dagger, ready to defend himself from the monster that he had equated the dead man’s stirring to— _ you’re too damn superstitious for a thief.  _

The man on the ground did not move again. 

The group splits into two, half the men leaving to search what remained of the town of Asingurd while the others searched the man, looking for anything valuable that he might have been carrying in his robes. 

The woman calls out for her troop, no forgiveness in her tone at the fact that they were spending too much time in one place—they were Ravagers, they did not  _ have  _ time to waste. 

But when the men carry out the body of man untouched by the flames, she is pleased. Dismounting her horse, she waits from them to bring him close, settling him down at her feet. 

She bends down with a wicked grin on her lips. 

Her calloused hands reach into his hair, a smirk replacing the smile as she feels the quality of his hair, smooth as the sun catches the blond locks.

“He’s a rich man.” One of the men adds, watching their leader warily as she feels the man’s hair. 

“Consider him your reward. He’s worth good money.” 


	2. Soldier's Price

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Frigga’s words hold true—the Romans are monsters.

CHAPTER TWO -  _ **SOLDIER'S PRICE**_

* * *

 

**5 P.M.**

**S** **omething lost is returned..**

The heat prickles across his skin like wildfire. 

It makes it difficult to breathe, sticky with humidity as he inhales deeply once, twice to fill his lungs. 

He thinks that more of a reason more plausible than the heat to explain his sudden thrust into consciousness— he chooses to explain it with the stinging pain that shoots up his side with the strength of storms that he’s watched with such awe when he’d once been young, questioning Roman motives but not their deeds. 

He shuts his eyes, praying to a god that he had not believed in for years for this all to be just another dream. 

When he opens his eyes seconds later, he is greeted once more by the sting of his side and the scent of spices and blood intermingling in the air as the party drew closer to the marketplace, voices blending in the air.

“Ah, my lord, was your journey comfortable?” A woman’s voice mocks, a grin on her face as she notices him stirring. 

Her words do not register for a good while, nothing on his mind but the pain in his side that seemed to grow with every passing moment. 

Taking shaky breaths, he sits up with a hand clamped over his side, fingers coming back sticky with blood. 

Groaning in pain, he shuts his eyes once more. 

He is greeted by the loud growl of a tiger. 

The sound does not fade when his eyes snap open again to take in the sight of the carriage, small windows at the sides. Looking through, he sees a group of carriages traveling with them—one contained wild animals that were, without doubt, meant for the arena. 

The caged tiger sniffs the air, hungry and growing ever more restless as it caught the scent of blood in the air. 

Despite the pain, Thor scrambles away from the window, eyes wide with fear, body weak with fatigue and blood loss. 

“Easy, sun maiden.” Comes an amused voice at Thor’s quick movements, curious hazel eyes staring from the opposite side of the carriage. 

Thor follows the voice closely to realize that it comes from a man, also chained. He looks to the animals outside once again, in an attempt to feel some offense at the nickname he’d been given, before looking back to the man, who now holds a strip of cloth from his already torn tunic.

“Do not die,” The man warns with a smile,“They will feed you to the tigers. They require more maintenance than us.” 

The smile does little to ease his tension as he moves to take the crumpled cloth from the man. 

A small toy clutters to the floor of the carriage from within the cloth. 

Thor swears that he’d been holding it all this time but he finds his hand empty when he looks.

* * *

 

**8 P.M.**

**A sale is secured in return for little gold.**

When the carriage comes to a stop and the doors at the back of it open to reveal a woman clad in armor with her face streaked with lines of blue.

Thor is the first to be pulled out of the carriage, followed by the man who had given him the cloth. 

As the rest of the men are pulled out, Thor realizes that some of them are clad in heavier chains that his own. There’s another woman that stands by him, a snarl painted on her bloodied lips as if she means to break the chains and attack someone—her chains look the heaviest. 

Noticing Thor’s gaze on the woman, the man from before leans towards him, “Sif.” He whispers, “She’s escaped before, don’t know how they found her again.” 

Even he looks at her in reverence, his eyes slightly downcast. 

“And you are?” Thor asks, his voice hoarse from thirst as he looks straight ahead, trying to formulate a plan of escape with muddled thoughts and no tools. 

“Fandral.” The man smiles tiredly, “I used to perform, and now—” 

“Enough talk!” The slaver demands, her tone harsh and ringing in their ears. Fandral stiffens, clenching his jaw and turning his gaze away from Thor. 

“Behave yourselves unless to wish spending a night with the animals.” She warns, looking over the men and Sif. Her eyes harden when they land on the woman—she stops to whisper something to Sif that causes her to stiffen and tug at her chains. 

Moments later, the slaver draws quickly away, a triumphant smile on her lips as she seems to see someone that she knows. 

“Ravager.” Fandral spits, venom dripping from his words as she moves to greet someone dressed grandly in flowing robes of yellow and blue, similar blue paint decorating his face as it did hers. 

“You have brought me gifts!” The man exclaims, clapping his hands like a child who has just received a birthday present upon seeing the people standing in chains. Walking over with a smile on his lips, he surveys them closely, his smile faltering slightly when he sees the wounds that some of them sport. 

“Would you care to explain why some of the goods are rotten?” 

Only then, through his daze does Thor realize that they are standing in a slave market.

“They are not ‘rotten’, my friend! They will work like oiled machines given time.” The slaver promises, walking beside the man, her eyes betraying no anger at his words as she watches the slaves closely, perhaps  _ closer  _ than the man. 

“Have you any proof?” 

“Have I ever led you astray?” She replies, offering the  _ royal  _ a small, almost childish pout. 

The man considers for a long moment, “The animals you sold me last time? Useless. Absolutely no good, all they do is eat. I find myself quite ‘astray’ with those.”

“Today is your lucky day, En Dwi Gast.” She continues, grinning as she tries to sell her goods. 

Her mouth opens in a sharp gasp as his hand closes quickly around her neck, squeezing as his body shifts faster than she can react. 

“Now, dear friend _ , _ ” He snarls, “That name isn’t as  _ grand  _ as it should be _ ,  _ is it?” He asks, letting go after a moment and watching with sickening glee as the slaver falls to her knees gasping for breath. 

“Do not make me unhappy with this purchase,  _ Valkyrie.  _ You too are mine to command.” He snarls.

“I’ll give… you a …. special price today.” She says, her voice shaky. 

Thor watches the exchange closely, shock clear on his face as he hears the man’s words. Some small part of him wonders if he would be able to convince her to simply let them go—another, bigger part of him pleads for him not be a fool. 

“I only need to know if they will fight. There’s a contest soon.” The man says, his fingers grasping Thor’s chin to turn his face to the side, “I like this one. He looks a fighter.” 

“Some will fight, others will die. You need both to bet.” 

The man stays in silence for a few moments, seeming to consider the slaver’s,  _ Valkyrie’s  _ words. 

“And the animals. I’ll give you four thousand for everything .” 

“I have to eat!” Valkyrie protests from the ground, standing to her feet at the offer of money, especially when it came with the promise of alcohol.

“The animals have to eat too.” The man says, making a mark in red paint over the collarbones of the slaves that he’d chosen to buy. 

Thor steels himself as the paint stains him, gritting his teeth.

He is reminded that Thor, King of Asingurd was no more. He had left that in the ruins of his home. From the moment that the cool paint had touched him, he was only Thor. 

A slave to the very Romans he’d come to hate.


	3. Fresh Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Grandmaster questions his new fighters' ability.

**7 A.M.  
**

**A slave is trusted.**

The wine has gone sour.

Loki does not mind as takes a slow sip after sip from the chalice, staining his lips with the wine as he watches the carriage roll into the courtyard of the Grandmaster’s property, iron gates creaking as they swing open.

The wine does little to help with the tension that holds his muscles taut, sweat rolling down his forehead as a result of the stifling heat as he watches the Ravager usher the group out of the carriage.

He calls for more wine, setting down his empty chalice, the metal clinking against the wide stone handrail.

“I believe you will be happy with the purchase.” En Dwi Gast grins, his voice cheery as he moves to stand by his advisor, leaning against the handrail as his eyes take in Loki’s furrowed eyebrows.

“Valkyrie has promised victories this time.” He says, eyes shifting to a servant that had brought more wine as Loki had requested.

Loki only sneers at the mention of the Ravager’s name, quick to oppose her words with his own.

“Few will earn the emperor’s favor for you. Leave the others to die, it will save you money.” He claims, his voice bored as he plucks the chalice up again once a servant fills it.

* * *

 

**11 A.M.; A few days later.**

**The weak are expected to fight.**

The whip stings as the sharp iron tip digs into the flesh of his back and yet—he does not speak as he lifts yet another boulder.

There is some part of him that wishes to throw it at the ‘masters’ rather than move them into the formation of a circle like he or rather, all the prisoners, had been directed to do so. Another part of him tells him to run but to where—he does not know.

His head stays bowed in false reverence, something that he had come to learn over the span of mere days, eyes seeking out the man he now considered as a friend. Fandral does not meet his eyes, face contorted in a grimace as he too receives a lashing from the whip, nearly dropping the boulder that he had been carrying.

A fleeting thought makes him believe that this is what it life is meant to be—some cruel punishment for past sins that he does not remember, some cruel punishment for past mistakes made.

“This is your life now!” Valkyrie’s voice rings out, the whip hanging limply from her calloused hands, “Learn to obey, learn to  _work_  and you may yet survive.”

Her words do little to spur them on as the rocks begin imitate something like an arena, circling a large area in which the new fighters would be allowed to train with wooden blades.

Thor barely listens as he catches someone else’s eyes, cold and hardened from years of combat. A slow smirk tugs at the woman’s lips before she’s turning back to sharpening her sword.

He swears that her lips move in some semblance of the word, ‘Welcome’ before she turns back to her sword, although it’s not how he quite feels as he bites back the groan of pain as he heaves another boulder atop the pile line of rocks.

“Do you hear me, Odinson?” Valkyrie spits, forcing his chin up with her pointer finger as she notices his eyes stray.

“Yes.”

His voice is angry.

* * *

 

**1 P.M.**

**A promise is renewed.**

“You’ve come, Huntress.” Valkyrie’s voice is playful, although strained from exhaustion as she drops her whip to the sand, moving to stand beside the only slave, the only fighter who had survived lying to their master.

“I promised my attendance, did I not?” The woman—Y/N—looks up from her sword, sparks flying up from the metal as she brings it away from the spinning by her side.

“You’ve never been good at keeping promises.”

Y/N shakes her head, “Only if you are En Dwi Gast.” She laughs, slamming the tip of the sword into the sand, standing up and embracing Valkyrie.

“I’ve awaited your return.” She whispers against the Ravager’s hair, taking a deep inhale of the smoke that clung to the woman’s hair, “You have brought valuable goods this time. And Sif too.” She laughs, letting Valkyrie go.

Smiles light both women’s lips as Valkyrie’s eyes seek out the group that she’d brought for their master.

“And I must now watch over them.”

“Let them rest, Ravager.” The title leaves Y/N’s  mouth easily, tainted by no malice, only amusement, “You are not to deliver weak fighters to the arena.”

“They will run if left unsupervised.” Her words are whispered, filled with a certain anger at the prospect of losing her sale, her only chance at running from the man who held her captive.

“Let them try.”  Y/N challenges.

* * *

 

**1 P.M.**

**The master ponders.**

The Grandmaster never missed the training for the new fighters, especially when it concerned cementing his stance among the emperor’s men.

The more experienced gladiators trained against each other as he watched their blades bounce off each other’s and glint in the sun’s rays.

He watches from a short distance, quick eyes immediately sorting the new class into smaller groups.

He had not bought them, he had bought their blood, their deaths that so many swarmed to see like vultures circling a carcass.

The next contest was to be held soon—that much he could sense from the excitement that swelled in Rome’s heart, streets filling with wanderers and sightseers alike, each coming from various corners of the world to quench their ravenous hunger for brutality.

If he was to weigh his pockets down, he would need good fighters for the crowds to bet on. He would need peasant hands throwing hard-earned coin at his feet for a mere glimpse of his fighters.

And as much as Valkyrie had promised victories with the slaves that she had captured, he still questioned her.

He’d been betrayed before by the bitch that his Ravager spent her time with. One victory did not guarantee immunity on his land and yet, the emperor had come to favor the  _Huntress_ —come to believe that the woman had Diana’s blessing.

The Grandmaster thought him a fool through and through. Only power held him high and power could be swayed.

The emperor did not understand that women were never to be trusted. Women were never bet on.

They could be left to die soon.


End file.
